Whispers to an Empty Wind
by whisper.words.of.wisdom
Summary: Canada and America's governments and economies are in disrepair and the only way to salvage their countries is to form a single country-resulting in their demise and the birth of a nation. Story is much better than summary. Rated T for angst and death
1. Exterminate

'There's no other choice,' America reminded himself as he sat at the table, staring at the parchment that lay between him and his brother. The fateful little paper that would bind their countries together. The paper that would solve all their problems.

'Theoretically.' Canada's conscience added.

"No one else knows. It's not too late for you to back out," Canada said consolingly, but he only won a stifled sob from America. "I won't think any less of you," he breathed, almost as if it was an afterthought.

"They all know. They're all here, even. Can't you see them?"

"Oh." Canada's gaze swept around the room.

England was suppressing tears, France biting his lip so hard Canada could see the blood well up around the teeth. Hungary was trying to soothe Sealand, who Canada knew shouldn't have even been there. The young nation was crying quietly into Hungary's breast. She hugged him gently. Canada knew Hungary had been through a lot in her life too.

What he didn't know was that she felt guilty. She felt as if she had been brought to court for crimes she had committed, things she knew she had done. Why couldn't they join the way she and Austria had? She fathomed a glance at her former husband, who was looking on with a steely gaze and a lip like France's, torn and bleeding from biting it. Hungary could tell he was trying to stay strong.

America looked at England. "I'm sorry. I guess I never was a hero after all. I guess… I failed you."

That was England's breaking point. The tears finally came, dripping placidly down his cheeks. "You shouldn't, please, America, no good can come of this." And then the nation just kept babbling about America's childhood—even recalling Canada's existence at the time—going so far as to talk about the Revolution, and how even then he hadn't failed.

Canada's eyes fixed themselves on France. France screwed up in mentoring. Canada had been left to his own devices when he should have been taught. He should have been… so much more.

When fury should have been ignited, anger, defiance, set aflame, Canada felt something completely different.

Love.

France didn't even wait for Canada to speak. He just cried and whispered Canadian French, something Canada didn't even know his older brother had taken the time to learn.

Canada got up and hugged France and England for the last time and picked up the quill with a quivering hand.

M… A… T… T… H…

Sealand sobbed again, and Canada stopped writing. Hungary had taken to comforting him like a small child, but her eyes were also glistening with unfallen tears. Canada couldn't bring himself to be strong, couldn't smile, and could do nothing. He gnawed his lip again and finished his name in script.

America stared at the paper once more. His brother had… dotted the i's with tiny hearts. Was this his final stand, a laugh in the face of death? Or was it a simple blotch of ink that he was taking too much to heart?

America, too, picked his quill up with uncertainty. It was made from a handsome feather; dark grey, speckled in places. He glanced at the quill that Canada hadn't remembered to return to the inkwell.

Eagle. So his was made of a feather from not just any bird, but a common loon. Canada's bird. The symbols their superiors had chosen to use broke his heart.

But how could his heart possibly break if it wasn't even whole to start with?


	2. Regenerate

America closed his eyes, expelled a long sigh through his teeth, and quickly scribbled his name before he changed his mind.

Canada didn't know how to feel. He felt hatred and love, relief and stress, worry and hope. Sealand had stopped crying. Out of the corner of his eye Canada could see the boy rubbing the tears off his face, even though tears still came.

"Audaces fortuna iuvat. Aut viam inveniam aut faciam," Canada said in the strongest voice he could muster.

"Audere est facere. Morituri te salutamus."

And then they spoke together. "Auribus tenere lupum."

Rome appeared behind Canada with a serious look on his face. His image rippled, then placed a hand on Canada's shoulder.

America tried to help him. Canada's expression was pained as he disappeared, and America had been about to spring forward when Germania pulled him back, into the dark, away from the nations, away from life.

Sealand had taken to crying again; Liechtenstein had long since buried her face in her brother's shirt, sniffling just loudly enough to be audible. Switzerland was quietly murmuring to her in a mixture of French, German, and Italian.

Out of them all, France was most broken. He looked pitiful; a bird with broken wings would have seemed better off. The blood from his lip had dripped down his chin and each sob just widened the wound.

Hungary looked left and right, but no one seemed to be caring about what was going on with other countries that they weren't directly related to.

Hungary shifted Sealand to her side and bent near France. He really needed to stop crying or his lip would never look much like a lip again. Her gaze scanned the room once more—if only she hadn't worn her military uniform today!—no spare cloth to be found. Unless…

She carefully slipped Sealand's kerchief from around his neck and placed her hand on France's knee. The man recoiled at her touch and scooted to the side. Hungary bent to further towards him, folding Sealand's cloth over (she'd have to get him a new one) and pressed it up against France's mouth.

"There's no reason to hurt yourself more than you already have," she murmured, momentarily pulling the scarf back and folding it over once more.

A tiny, sandy-haired child—a girl—looked at the nations before her. They were all very sad, and she could not fathom why.

She bounced off the table on which she had stood, cocked her head at the group, and pulled on the long, tan coat of one. "E-excuse me. Why is everyone so sad?"

Her bright blue eyes trained themselves on the other's violet ones, filled with concern.

Russia's facial expression flickered to confusion. "Who are you?"

_

NOTES:  
Audaces fortuna iuvat. Aut viam inveniam aut faciam. : Fortune favors the bold. I will either find a way or make one.

Audere est facere. Morituri te salutamus : To dare is to do. We who are about to die salute you.

Auribus tenere lupum : I hold a wolf by the ears (means: I am in a dangerous situation and dare not let go)

ALSO, I don't speak Latin. XD This is coming from my mom, who took Latin in high school. So this is likely mangled.


	3. Lost in Light

"I—I'm Carica. I think. Is that right?"

Russia blinked in response. Everyone was filing away. He vainly scanned the room for England or France, and frowned. "You know where you live, da?"

"Uh, no. I don't, actually."

Russia frowned a bit more. "You will come to my home for a while until we find your brother, yes?"

It was Carica's turn to blink and ask a stupid question. "Are you my brother?"

Russia was taken aback. Surely England was her brother, or France, or maybe both of them. But certainly not him. "I am not your brother. Uh, should I get you some vodka?"

"Huh?"

"It's just Russian water, don't worry. Here."

Carica did not take the vial, but rather stared at him in a perplexed manner. Slowly she extended a tiny hand and took the metal container. She looked at it for a second before downing the entire thing.

"Russia! What are you doing to that child?"

"Hm? England, I was just talking about you," Russia said brightly, and Carica nodded, trying to copy the smile.  
"I—never mind that. Who is that?"

"This one? Carica. She can down a lot of vodka, too."

"You don't mean, you couldn't possibly be suggesting," England babbled. Carica. It pained his heart to hear the name.

"I do not know. This is not exactly my strong suit. You deal with it."

The scene was all too familiar. A scruffy, blonde, blue-eyed child in a white shift, complete with a little red bow…

"Is it my fault? Whatever I did, I'm sorry." Carica fiddled with the ribbon on the front of her dress awkwardly.

England knelt and stared at the young nation. "No, it's not your fault."

She even had the stray hair. Just where America's was, but it drooped in front of her face the way Canada's did. Did she have his eyebrows? England traced his own absently.

Then the same question befell England. "Are you my brother?"

"I… I may be."

Russia knelt down and pushed his spine a bit lower so he was roughly eye-level with her. "You are going to stay with this man because he might be your brother, da?"

Carica squirmed under the gaze of the men. "Okay."

"So how do you move it?"

"'It' is a 'her.' Furthermore, you carry her. Do I need to do this for you?"

"N-no."

England picked Carica up carefully. She was wavy-haired… like France… But she had his eyebrows! His! She was surely his little sister. "Right. To the embassy, I suppose."

Carica found the embassy a very fun place to run around. England let her stay in his room and immediately regretted it when he came back from the last meeting of the day.

"You ate the whole wheel of cheese?" he asked, surveying the damage done in the room.

She nodded and scuffed at the floor. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm not even _mad._That's amazing."

England scooped the nation into his arms again, rocking her gently until she was soundly asleep.

Then he placed her in her own room so she wouldn't hear him cry.


End file.
